


never was the kind to make a fuss

by penelopeblossom



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Riverparents, blossoms in their natural habitat, brief angst, however you want to look at it, late night confrontations, or brother/sister dynamics, parentdale, penford, some light humor if you squint your eyes, some references to forced marriage and incest but it's not delved into much, supportive husband/wife dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penelopeblossom/pseuds/penelopeblossom
Summary: Penelope confronts Clifford about his affair.





	never was the kind to make a fuss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/gifts).

> This fic was inspired by that one Riverdale tie-in comic where it was revealed that Clifford was having an affair with Cheryl's dressage coach, Ellen.
> 
> Title appropriately taken from Cyndi Lauper's "When You Were Mine" cover.

It’s half-past ten when Penelope hears the creak of the front door followed by the all too familiar tapping of her husband’s oxfords against the foyer tile. She has half a mind to call out to him but ultimately decides against it, opting instead to turn the page of the book in front of her. If he wanted a word, he would follow the firelight to her. In the meantime her attention belonged to Hawthorne. 

_ ‘To plant a family! This idea is at the bottom of most of the wrong and mischief which men do. The truth is, that, once in every half-century, at longest, a family should be merged into the great, obscure mass of humanity, and forget all about its ancestors. Human blood, in order to keep its freshness, should run in hidden streams, as the water of an aqueduct is conveyed in subterranean pipes. In the family existence of these Pyncheons, for instance, – forgive me Phoebe, but I cannot think of you as one of them, – in their brief New England pedigree, there has been time enough to infect them all with one kind of lunacy or another.’ _

Thoroughly engrossed in her story, Penelope doesn’t even hear her husband when he appears in the doorway a few minutes later, two scotches in hand and a mild sort of endearment playing on his features.

“Still at it?”

His voice makes her jump ever so slightly, pulling her out of the fictional universe she had been inhabiting for the past hour or so and back into reality.

“You scared me,” she says, breathing out a sigh of relief.

Clifford allows something resembling a laugh to escape his lips before making his way over to her. 

“I’m more than halfway through,” she answers, marking her page in the chapter and reaching over to set the book down on the coffee table in front of her.

Clifford plants himself next to her on the couch and hands her a glass. The crackling of the fireplace is the only sound that fills the room as they both take a sip of their respective drinks, in what one could only describe as eerie synchrony. 

“I didn’t expect you to be up this late,” Clifford admits, breaking the silence. He sets his glass down on the table, taking a moment to glance over the cover of his wife’s book. “I do hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”

“I wasn’t,” Penelope shakes her head, grimacing as she feels the scotch burn down her throat. She kicks herself for swallowing it too quickly. “I just wanted to get a few more chapters in before I went to bed.”

If there’s one thing the years have made her it’s an elegant liar. 

“Must be quite the story,” Clifford muses, swirling the liquor in his glass with familiar ease.

“The children did ask about you at dinner, though,” she adds casually. Clifford eyes her over the rim of his glass but her gaze is fixated elsewhere. “I told them you must have gotten caught up with work.” 

An uneasy feeling begins to grow in the pit of his stomach but neither his face nor his words betray him. “That’s right, I did.”

Penelope tilts her head and regards him carefully. 

“I told you I was dropping by Uncle Harrison’s this afternoon,” he continues, unable to read her expression. “You remember that he and Lillian have been wanting to remodel the house? Well, he needed my advice on some of the renovations...ended up asking for my opinion on a few of the new pieces they’d purchased.” He pauses, taking a sip of his scotch. “I lost track of time. By the time I headed out to the factory it was late; there was plenty of work to be done.” A deliberate sigh. “I should have called.” 

“Mmm,” Penelope shakes her head, swallowing the last of her liquor. “It’s quite alright.” She motions for Clifford to turn in his seat so that he’s facing away from her-- giving her full access to his shoulders, which she begins to massage slowly with her hands. 

Clifford melts under her touch, the tension in his muscles quickly dissipating with every gentle squeeze of her fingers. He closes his eyes, focusing solely on the movements of her hands.

Penelope rubs circles into his shoulder blades with the pads of her thumbs, allowing him to get comfortable enough under her touch to forget their conversation. She can feel his posture slacken more and more with every calculated motion and continues her steady work for a little bit longer until she’s certain he’s so at ease that he could slip out of consciousness at any moment. Once she feels he’s reached that stage, she decides to break the silence. 

“So at what point during the day did you visit the stables?”

As soon as the last word leaves her lips, she can feel the tension she worked so hard to alleviate return and spread tenfold throughout her husband’s upper body-- leaving him stiff as a maple syrup barrel underneath her fingertips. 

She’s no longer massaging him when he slowly turns to face her, eyes wide and mouth agape. He doesn’t say a word, which speaks a thousand. She can see the guilt written in the fine lines of his face, blending ever so seamlessly with the fear and shock. For a moment she almost pities him.

“How did you--?”

“There are bits of hay on your cardigan, dirt on your shoes. The stench of horses and sweat and wood still cling to you...” she replies cooly, dropping her gaze to the side of his neck. Shifting in her seat to close the space between them, she pushes the fabric of his collar aside and gently runs her fingers over the darkened spot of skin beneath his jawline. “And I certainly didn’t give you that.”

This time her touch causes Clifford’s throat to dry up.

“Nor did Uncle Harrison, I’m sure,” she adds, an unsettling grin playing on her lips. “He was actually here for tea earlier-- came by at around five. We were discussing the Brandenburg summer music program. Jason seemed very interested in what he had to say.” 

“Penelope--”

“You’ve been going behind my back, Clifford.” 

No longer devoid of emotion, her voice falters, and Clifford can see that whatever little game she was playing at before is over. Her hazel eyes plead with his blue ones for an explanation but the words escape him. She was never supposed to know, never supposed to be able to put the pieces together enough to catch him in a lie. He had gone to great lengths to ensure as much-- or so he thought. Penelope had always been much smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Perhaps he had gotten too cocky and underestimated her. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, hoping the sincerity in his voice will make up for the inadequacy of his words. “You have to understand, none of it meant...means, anything. _ She _ doesn’t mean anything.” He reaches over, taking her hand into his, praying a little reassurance will be enough to put this whole sordid business behind them.

Penelope narrows her eyes in response and for a second Clifford’s certain she’s going to put his lights out right then and there. Instead, she just shakes her head and lets out a short laugh that sends chills down his spine.

“You think I care that you’ve been running around with some naive, desperate girl who is no doubt living out a fantasy in her head that she will someday take my place?” She pulls her hand away from his grasp. “Please, Clifford. I know the affair is meaningless. She’s Cheryl’s dressage coach, for Christ’s sake.”

Clifford furrows his brow, “Then what are you upset about?”

“That you lied to me!” she admits, raising her voice. “That you went behind my back for weeks thinking I would be stupid enough not to notice.” 

Clifford watches as she rises from her seat on the couch and starts pacing around the room, her delicate mesh robe billowing behind her. Her arms are crossed, indicating her displeasure, and she wears a frazzled look on her face-- one he’s not unfamiliar with. If she weren’t so distraught she might look dignified. 

“I thought we were better than that,” she says, stopping in front of the fireplace to face him. Her voice is lower now, more personal. “You said we were partners.”

Her reaction catches Clifford so off guard that all he can do is sit there, dumbfounded, with his slack jaw and empty scotch glass in hand. He had expected the affair to upset her-- hurt her, even. It was why he had kept it a secret from her in the first place. Out of a desire to protect her feelings. But this? This he hadn’t seen coming. It was a struggle to wrap his head around it.

“We are--”

“Our marriage...” Penelope starts up again, cutting him off without intention. “I could never blame you for seeking that elsewhere. I know we’ve never been able to fully…I understand why you would feel the need to turn to someone else.”

“I would never ask more of you than you’re comfortable giving.”

“I know,” she says softly, rounding the coffee table to take back her spot next to him on the couch. This time it’s she who reaches for his hand. “That’s why I’m not upset about Ellen.”

Clifford looks up to meet her eyes, “How long have you known?”

“Two or three weeks,” she shrugs, “give or take. I kept hoping you would talk to me about it. Like old times.”

“Old times,” he repeats, remembering all of their faded, devil may care high school escapades. How he would always come home to Penelope after a date and tell her how it went. How none of her boyfriends ever lasted longer than three months. How they both made the most of the last few years of freedom they had before their parents set out to arrange what they had been preparing them their whole lives for. “Maybe we had the right idea then.”

Penelope looks at him quizzically, “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s like you said,” he explains, “You and I are partners, always will be. But there are certain things we can’t give each other. So as long as we don’t lose sight of what’s truly important, at the end of the day...well, what’s the harm in having those needs satisfied elsewhere?”

Penelope allows his words to sink in, the implications of them far from lost on her. It wasn’t often her husband surprised her, but this time he had admittedly left her speechless. Not that she found any fault with his reasoning-- he was right, of course. So long as they both remembered who they were, and what was truly important, what did it matter if they engaged in the odd affair every now and then? It was only sex, after all. And sex, they knew all too well, was so often meaningless. But after all these years, after everything that had happened...something in the back of her mind just wouldn’t allow her go there. 

She recalls feeling sick to her stomach when a very distraught, very inebriated Darryl Doiley came to her just a few years ago seeking more comfort than she was willing to offer. She had rejected his advances and immediately sent him packing after he ignored her attempts to rebuff him and crudely tried to kiss her. His audacity had been so offensive to her. How dare he think of her as the kind of woman who would step out on her husband? How dare he assume that she lacked the scruples to prevent her from sleeping with a married man? A married man with children, no less! The whole thing had made her blood boil.

No, she could never do what Clifford was doing. No matter how much they both tried to justify it, regardless of whether or not she had his blessing, a part of her would always feel she was in the wrong. It was just her nature.

“I couldn’t,” she tells him quietly, “but I won’t stop you.”

Clifford sets his empty glass on the table and nods, “So where do we go from here?”

“Well, for starters, you need to be more careful about these,” Penelope says taking his chin in between her fingers and turning his head so that she can point to the hickey on his neck. “Unless, of course, you want to traumatize our children and have them think they’re coming from me.” 

“Noted,” he replies, scrunching up his face in horror.

“And you need to be more discreet. Not just at home, but in general. No more public rendezvous in the stables, no more stolen kisses behind unlocked doors. The last thing we need is a scandal. God knows this town talks enough about us as it is. Besides, we have Jason and Cheryl to consider. Either one of them could have walked in on the two of you. It’s bad enough they’ve caught on to the strange hours you’ve been keeping. You know Cheryl, if she begins to suspect anything dubious is taking place...she won’t leave well enough alone.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m serious, Clifford,” she stresses, “If the children were to discover the truth, it would hurt them. They can’t know.”

“I’ll be more careful,” he assures. “You have my word.”

“Good,” Penelope quips, “because you were quite sloppy these past few weeks. Which reminds me, you need to keep your voice down when you take those sorts of calls in this house. You never know who might be listening in.”

Clifford raises an eyebrow, “You really do think of everything, don’t you?”

“Always,” she smiles innocently. 

He takes in the sight of her, dressed down in her satin nightgown and matching robe, with her hair loose and the day’s makeup washed off her face. She still looks regal, even without all the finery. Despite where she’d come from, and everything their mother had said about her while they were growing up, the kind of grace that Penelope possessed was not one that could be bred. It was something that had always come from within her-- something that Clifford had always admired.

“I really am sorry, Penelope,” he speaks up after a while, his eyes pleading with hers to believe him. “For going behind your back, for lying to you. I should have known you would understand.”

“You can always trust me.” Her voice is firm but soft, barely above a whisper. If they weren’t sitting so close to one another, the crackling of the fireplace would have drowned it out. But they are-- and it doesn’t. 

Clifford tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You and you alone,” he insists, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. Penelope can’t help but smile at his words. 

“So we’re good, then?” he confirms. 

Penelope nods, “We’re good.” A playful grin tugs at the corner of her lips, “Though, I must say...another redhead? Really, Clifford?” 

With the former tension between them gone, Clifford throws back his head and laughs. “I suppose I have a type.”

If Penelope hadn’t already finished her scotch, she could have easily done so now. “Nothing could be more purely Blossom.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated!


End file.
